Pieces of his face smear out of place, waft into kites, float off up behind him walking the desert highway towards a sun glare off the tin roof of a soda fountain in the distance.
By the time he gets there his face is red muscle, dried and tightened from the heat; rim of teeth, holes in the skull for a nose, bug eyes. He grabs a Coca-Cola, drops a dollar on the counter, and leaves the pop shop.
Texas Tim spins around on his stool, looks up at George putting the bill in the cash machine and says, "that there's a good man's done terrible things. Sloughing of the face is an allergy of regret."